


Without Rules

by vysila



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Illya and Napoleon release some post-mission tension</i><br/>Written December 2005 for muncle's Down the Chimney Affair story exchange on livejournal<br/>K1mono's prompts were:  Illya, red velvet, during Venice Costume extravaganza event</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Rules

The end of another mission and I am undamaged, although I cannot say the same for my wardrobe. A great pity about the latter, as the hired costume was expensive and Mr. Waverly was on another one of his budget-trimming tears when we left New York. My expense report will probably rate a scowl and matching caustic comment, but budgets are not my concern. Completing the mission, keeping my partner safe, and surviving are my concerns.

At the canal’s edge Napoleon is holding his own in a rapid-fire discussion with the local polizia. Better him than me. My Italian is less than fluent, nor am I as diplomatic as Napoleon. I have complete faith that he will coax them into cooperation, despite the obvious disadvantage of being dressed like a Seventeenth Century fop. Outlandish costumes, however, are not unusual in Venice during Carnevale.

I hope he doesn’t take too long. It’s late and I’m filthy, ragged and tired, but also jittery from an excess of adrenaline that demands release. I feel like I’m standing too close to a high voltage transformer.

By contrast, Napoleon appears as fresh as the proverbial morning dew. That may be because he was enjoying the salons and front rooms of various palazzi and the Casino, while I have been skulking about the back rooms and alleys and canals. Both of us trying, each in our own way, to track Thrush’s money-laundering pipeline back to the source. Tonight we succeeded. 

It is cold, a bitter, damp chill that rises from the canals and settles into my bones in a way that the harshest winters in Moscow and New York don’t. This narrow calle stinks of brackish water, rotting fish, and death. Death has its own odor, one Napoleon and I are all too familiar with. But at least it’s not his death I smell tonight.

I have nightmares where I do.

We have acquired three dead bodies and two live prisoners. I do not concern myself with the dead, although two of them died by my hand. No, instead I do what I do best, and cover my partner’s back. I point my glare and my gun at our prisoners, and they glare back at me.

The canal-side babble ceases. A pity, in a way. I like to listen to Napoleon speak Italian. Sometimes in bed, when we are spent and drifting off to sleep, he spoons up behind me and whispers against my hair. He speaks so softly I can’t make out the words, but I know it’s Italian, just by the rhythm. He never says what it is he whispers in the dark, and I never ask.

Some secrets are too private to be shared.

“I’ve convinced them of our bona fides, partner.” A dozen strides brings Napoleon to my side. The polizia follow in an unenthusiastic herd. They are clearly unhappy by this disruption of their holiday season, distressed over a perceived usurpation of authority. “Carlo Venerdi is sending an escort from Rome, but they won’t be here until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Venezia’s finest,” with a sweep of his hand he indicates the officers, “have agreed to hold these two in the local pokey until then.”

This is good news, because babysitting two grumpy Thrush agents all night does not rank high on my list of enjoyable activities. Our captives are taken into custody and the polizia make it clear they would prefer if we made ourselves scarce. International cooperation sometimes stretches only so far.

Napoleon chooses our direction and we begin walking. Nothing is very far in this compact city. 

Now that we are off the clock and safe, the tiredness rolls away like the outgoing tide, until all that is left is the adrenaline seeking an outlet. I eye Napoleon speculatively, trying to estimate the level of unfocused energy trapped inside that sleek body.

Napoleon shivers. He must be freezing; he looks colder than I feel. The costume fits him snugly, revealing the powerful contours of his body. I admire the view, but it leaves no room for extra layers beneath, and Napoleon does not handle the cold well to begin with.

My imagination’s already working overtime on ways to warm him up.

Napoleon catches me looking at him and lifts an eyebrow, inviting me to share my thoughts. 

I’m not about to tell him how desirable he is in the form-fitting outfit, so instead I grumble. “We both look ridiculous. Whoever came up with these preposterous costumes should be exiled to a raft in the middle of the ocean. They owe far more to a designer’s fantasies than historical accuracy.”

He fields my foolish straight line and tosses it right back at me, accompanied by a wicked leer. “But that’s the whole point of Carnevale, tovarisch. Indulging one’s fantasies.”

For once, there is no Innocent to serve as buffer between us; no pretty young thing to compete over. Just me and Napoleon. And Carnevale, where anything can happen.

My balls tighten with anticipation.

Napoleon again glances over at me, teeth and eyes shining in the vague light. He fingers the torn sleeve of my jacket, the red velvet now stiff and blackened with drying blood. The enemy’s blood, not mine. And more importantly, not his. 

“Your costume looks a little, ah, worse for wear, partner.” Although the words are light-hearted, his voice hitches roughly. “Pity. You looked very fetching in it.”

Fetching, he says. “Woof.” 

He smiles, a wide genuine one that etches laugh lines in his face, and I recognize the gleam of mischief in his eyes. “We both know you’re all bark and no—ah…“ 

But I do bite, and he remembers this truth. He tilts his head, exposing his neck, to reveal the dark evidence of my last bite staining his skin.

I can practically taste him now, the rhythm of desire pulsing beneath my mouth, the sweet, sweet flavor of possession.

Fog has rolled in from the lagoon, and in the confining shadows Napoleon bares his teeth and tosses a sidelong glance at me that suggests it is his turn to mark me. I feel heat climb up my throat and settle in my cheeks. Another scorching look like that and I will burst into flames on the spot. 

This confused tangle of walkway, canal and bridge where we have paused belongs to us and a prowling cat. The echoes of revelry from Piazza San Marco cannot compete with the quiet lapping of the canal at our feet. Even the windows above our heads are dark. La Serenissima wraps us in congenial invisibility, the local equivalent of Brigadoon.

Napoleon breathes in the scents of this city as he would a lover’s, a blissful smile on his face. And then he completely dumfounds me with his next words. “Venice reminds me of you, partner.” 

The patron city of spies? How very appropriate. “Dirty and smelly? I’m _so_ flattered.”

“We-ll, yes, that too, Filthy.” His wry expression is affectionate, almost wistful. He holds fond memories of the time I acquired that nickname; my memories are less favorable. “But I was actually thinking how well you both keep secrets.”

His oblique approach makes me want to smile, but instead I fold my arms across my chest and frown. “Is this a general observation, or do you have a specific secret in mind?” 

“Ah, now that you mention it… ” He waves his hand toward the bridge. “Do you know where we are?”

I do not share Napoleon’s affection for this city and have lost all sense of direction at this point. “Venice keeps her secrets, remember?” 

He is pleased to know something I do not; it shows in his face and voice. “This is the old Red Light district. The infamous Ponte della Tette.”

Bridge of Tits? I’m not surprised he would know this particular bit of history. He is a very selective scholar; bawdy chronology is his specialty. 

“There was a time when, ah, men loving men were so prevalent in Venice, and the Church and city fathers so angered by this state of affairs—”

“A timeless tradition that continues to this day,” I mutter.

Blithely, he ignores my interjection of reality. “—that they authorized the prostitutes of the city to cure men of their, er, affliction.”

My mouth goes dry. I can see where this is leading. 

“They would stand topless on this bridge and flaunt themselves to entice and convert those of a different… persuasion.”

My personal Don Quixote, on a mission to right a wrong. But instead of tilting at windmills, he wants to fuck under a bridge. Lunatic city, lunatic partner. But this is how it is sometimes, after a mission. Unpredictable.

A helpless rush of tenderness for this man rises up in me, today’s emotional high water mark. It is so easy to love him. Oh, Napoléon mio, this is my reward for vigilance. The truth is, I keep you safe for completely selfish reasons.

Half-heartedly, I extend a caution. I don’t expect him to heed the caution, but this is how it works for us. He will launch himself out over a precipice and I will have no choice but to follow, brimming with terrified euphoria.

“You may have to convince me that this is a secret worth keeping.” My voice is unaccountably thick, like I’ve swallowed a lungful of fog.

Those expressive eyebrows waggle up and down. “I have it on good authority that I am both charming and persuasive.”

I laugh. He is shameless with his manipulations, but at the same time this is the heart of Napoleon’s charm. His idealism and passion, his disarming refusal to take himself too seriously, these are what make his arrogance and confidence and egotism tolerable. 

I am not about to argue the persuasive part. Napoleon’s tongue is indeed persuasive, in more ways than one. Just thinking about the things Napoleon can do with his tongue sends a jolt of electricity straight from my brain to my dick. 

A useful word, dick, one I never used until Napoleon and I started sleeping together. A thoroughly American term, but of course he is a thoroughly American lover.

When Napoleon first began touching me in innocent ways, I was glad. I missed the touching that was so much a part of my life back home and so lacking since I came to the West. Somehow he divined that, and began patting me on the shoulder, on the arm or leg or back, in a friendly way. That was how it started between us.

Now though… Napoleon does not mean for his touch to be innocent. I lean into a caress that is surprisingly tentative, but grows bolder as his hand drifts lower. 

Touch is not only his prerogative, however. If we are to be foolish, romantic and reckless, then we shall be foolish, romantic and reckless together. 

I claim what is mine. A taste of his mouth, fever hot inside with a faint flavor of expensive brandy, lips softening under mine, handing control over just like that. He can do it when he wants to. Or needs to.

No words, just breathing for each other, tongue gliding against tongue, both of us angling for greater depth. I’m holding his head, the hair between my fingers soft and powdered from the wig he lost somewhere back there during the ambush. 

If this is an affliction, I hope there is no cure.

Napoleon’s hands are on my ass, tugging me close, groping unashamedly. I up the stakes and grind us together unmercifully. He’s smiling into our kiss, I can feel it and now we’re both laughing because we are a pair of crazy risk-junkies high on adrenaline, and what the hell, we’ll hear if someone approaches. 

We are not quite foolish and reckless enough to do this on an open fondamenta, though. The low sottoportego leading off the bridge is conveniently dark and private enough for our purposes.

I push him against the rough stone wall, scraping knuckles in my hurry, but I’m anxious to rub the tempting bulge in his pants and feel it harden beneath my palm. He buries his whimper against my shoulder, teeth closing on fabric. He will find his way to skin soon enough, and then he will leave his brand of ownership. Someplace entirely embarrassing, I am sure.

The breeches he wears leave little to the imagination – except how to open them. I’m fumbling at his waist like an eager teenager with too many thumbs. 

I am terribly, hideously glad I wasn’t born 400 years ago. Zippers are one of the greatest inventions of all time, I have no doubt of that. And Napoleon is laughing, shaking in my arms, not even trying to stifle his mirth.

“You could always use your teeth to open them,” he whispers, perhaps not teasing, and I was wrong when I thought I was hard before, because suddenly I am iron, just thinking about going down on my knees, here in a public space.

An odd rhythmic sound intrudes, a tiny splash and creak, the unmistakable evidence of a lone gondola. Some hardworking gondolier heading home after a long night of serenading Carnevale tourists, no doubt. But this serves as reminder that we are not quite alone in our little cocoon of privacy, confirmation of our considerable irresponsibility.

I don’t think either of us much cares.

“Let’s see you do better.” I all but snarl once the canal is silent again, frustrated as any teenager with my incompetence.

Finally my hand is inside his breeches, through the simple expediency of force. He’s hot and sweaty and a perfect fit in my hand, skin silkier than the shirt he’s wearing, a damp glide through my fist. I know his balls are starting to ache, full and straining for release, because mine are. 

Napoleon’s hand is on me, with a grip that could dent steel, not just stroking but pulling so hard I’m lifted up onto my toes. Determined to make me come first, competition mortared into the foundation of our partnership.

But he’s close, so close, tense and tight, almost frantic to come, his entire body lashed into a single knot of ecstasy. I can’t come, I have to set my teeth and pant hard against the need, because he’s closer and more vulnerable.

… and ohhh, he’s coming, surging and spilling in my hand, head thrown back, neck tendons corded, an eruption that lasts an eternity. He looks so damned amazing when he comes, mouth relaxing in wordless liberation, unmasked, surrendering his defenses, until there’s nothing left except absolute trust in eyes gone soft and unfocused.

Something primitive inside me rises up, willing him—open your eyes, yes, that’s it, look at me, know it’s me who makes you feel like this, I’m the only one who takes you this far, because you’re mine, mine and you know it.

He sags against me, only my hands and the wall at his back keeping him upright, but now that his face is hidden against my chest, his mouth is busy. He’s found a hole in my shirtfront and bites hard, sucking the blood to the surface, leaving his calling card.

His hand is still wrapped around my dick, pulling hard again. I think he’s determined to yank an orgasm clear from my toenails. Then his mouth molds against mine in a clash of teeth, swallowing my hungry little sobs. I am reduced to trembling need and can hardly breathe past the fire in my chest, sucking air in against a drag coefficient. 

It’s easy to forget how strong Napoleon is because intellect and force of personality are his most effective weapons, but now he unleashes his strength and turns us around, plasters me up against the wall, and does me one better. 

Napoleon is on his knees on a public, if deserted, street, with my dick in his mouth and sucking hard. From zero to 60 in under two seconds, and it isn’t just his persuasive tongue and the hot, hard suction that drags moans out of me, it’s the trust, the promise that if I follow him off that cliff, he won’t let me fall.

I want to make it last, but I can’t, not with Napoleon doing his damndest to make me come now, practically swallowing me down, hands gripping my hips so hard there will be bruises, relentlessly pursuing my pleasure and I’m close, so close—

He looks up at me and I come as if he’s commanded it, orgasm slamming through me so hard I’m seeing through a white haze and still he’s ripping it out of me like it’ll never end—

And he doesn’t stop, not until I’m done shuddering and shaking and there’s nothing left in me except what he owns.

It’s my turn to go boneless while he supports my weight, but his heart is pounding hard against my chest, and he’s gulping in air, too, as out of breath as I am. He presses his forehead against mine and together we wait it out, until the ebb and flow of breath and heartbeat finally slows and synchronizes. 

This time, when he murmurs into my hair, his voice is not as muffled as it is by pillows and bedclothes, and I finally hear what he says. My eyes shouldn’t sting like this just because he found a way to put these oversized feelings into words, but they do.

Someone approaches, the brisk clickety-clack of heels and a staccato rattle of high-pitched Italian echoing hollowly in the confines of the sottoportego. We’re still tucking clothes back together, both with one hand surreptitiously on our guns, when two middle-aged women loom out of the darkness, abruptly falling silent when they realize they have company. We greet them politely, not quite an apology for startling them, but they only give us as wide a berth as they can, passing single-file out onto the fondamenta, where they start to giggle like schoolgirls.

We laugh too, because we are foolish, romantic madmen, and because we are still gloriously, recklessly alive. 

The sky is lightening in the east when we emerge from the shadow of the sottoportego. I feel the need for one last defiant gesture – take that, Ponte della Tette! – and wrap one hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck and pull him in for a long, lingering kiss, shocking the ladies who are still giggling on the far side of the bridge.

All the way back to the hotel I think about how very, very lucky I am. For a long time after my wife left me for someone else, I believed in the brutal honesty of an old Russian proverb—that below the navel there is no religion and no truth. I even wore her ring for years as a reminder not to let anyone steal my heart again.

This time, my heart wasn’t stolen. I chose to give it away, to someone who safeguards it as closely as I do his. Because, with Napoleon, I have found truth and come as close to religion as I ever will.

As long as Napoleon’s breath stirs my hair and he whispers into the dark, I can anticipate what he will say.

“L’amore domina senza regole.”

Love rules without rules. Something Napoleon and I agree upon. Even if we don’t say it out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> Carnevale – There was no official Carnevale in Venice after Napoleon annexed the city, until 1979. I have taken fictional liberties with an unofficial celebration in the late 1960’s.
> 
> La Serenissima – The Serene One, a nickname for the city of Venice
> 
> Fondamenta – open terrace at the edge of a canal
> 
> Sottoportego –ground level tunnel-like passages through buildings; some are main pedestrian walkways


End file.
